After ringing her up and getting them their treats, I drop all pretense of being cheery for the jerk with a scowl on his face.
“What can I get you?” His eyes roam across my chest with a lascivious look I could do without.
“You,” he chuckles. “Black coffee and a bran muffin,” he continues when he sees I don’t find his comment funny.
“It’ll be ready over there.” I point to the pickup station.
He scoffs. “You got theirs here. I don’t have time to wait because of their pickiness.”
“I made a special exception for them; they were cute. You’re not.” Ignoring him, I try to help the next customer when the man leans forward.
“Listen, you little bitch-”
He’s cut off by a hand squeezing the back of his neck. “Call her a bitch again. I dare you.” The hotty with the dirty-blond hair and soulful blue eyes who has been coming in here for a month now drawls in his ear.
“Get the fuck off me!” the detestable man snaps.
“Apologize first.” He must squeeze harder because the guy drops to his knees.
“Fuck,” the mean man murmurs. “I’m sorry.” Letting go as quickly as he latched on, the stranger stands back so the other can take his leave. Not without tossing a threatening glare my way first.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous says, keeping his focus on the other guy until he exits the shop.
“Not the first time I’ve run into a jerk, won’t be the last. But thank you. Now, what can I get for you? On me.” I share a genuine smile as he turns back to face me.
I’m ensnared by his startling dark cerulean gaze as his eyes rake over me from top to bottom. He’s inspecting me, I realize, and turn away slightly, knowing he’ll notice the bruise on my shoulder and neck that my shirt refuses to hide.
He frowns but doesn’t comment. “Black coffee and one of those brown sugar muffins.”
“Coming right up.” This time he stays put after handing me a twenty.
“I said this one was on me.” I try to push the money back as he’s handed his order.
Without another word, the man takes his food and walks over to the same table he always sits at. Only this time, he doesn’t watch the people outside; he watches me. Sipping his drink slowly and only ripping off small bites of his muffin, his stare never wavers.
After an hour of this intensity, I head into the back, needing a break. Sitting on a box of crates near the rear exit, out of view of anyone, I pull the corner of my shirt down to see the discoloration of my latest mishap.
Swirls of black and blue cover the upper half of my body; small yellow dots in the middle of each bruise can be seen from the impact of every hit. There are more, and I ache with every fiber of my being from the beating I took, but it was worth it. I’ll do it again a thousand times if it means savinghislife. Savinghimfrom any pain.
Sawyer is only six and doesn’t deserve the dysfunction of our family. I stay for him. I bleed for him. I will die for him if I have to. But first, I need to continue working on getting him out. Anything has to be better than what we face now.
“Hey, Noelle. Hot guy is looking for you,” Trista calls out, popping her head around the corner. She winces when she sees my shoulder but doesn’t say anything. She learned months ago that my situation was not going to change, and I wasn't going to just leave the boy behind.
I may be twenty and able to move out on my own, but I know if I had left my cousin with his parents, he’d be dead by now.I’vebarely survived some of the beatings; there’s no way he would have. My parents died in a car accident when I was nine. It probably should have taken my life, too, but I was ejected as we rolled. It’s a miracle I’m even alive. And I’m not yet free of the trauma.
I had lain on the snowy highway with a broken leg, arm, and a concussion and watched as the car exploded when it hit a tree. It was a freak accident caused by black ice and a deer.
Getting to my feet, I make my way up front to find the stranger standing just beyond the entrance to the café. Typing on his phone, he looks up as soon as the small swinging gate opens.
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften as he stands straight, bringing his height, and my lack thereof, to notice. At five foot three, I stand shorter than most, but he’s tall. Well over six feet and muscular. His arms strain in the confines of his navy-blue shirt.
“How can I help you?” My cheery disposition appears out of habit.
His hand lifts, drawing my attention, sucking in a sharp breath as he touches the top of my breastbone below my neck. His fingers are warm as they graze along my collarbone. By the time I realize what’s happening, it’s too late, and he’s pulling my shirt a little to the side, exposing what I’ve tried so hard to cover up for far too long.
“You okay?” he asks. The emotion in his voice is masked. I nod because nobody has ever asked me that before. They’ve asked what happened or why, but never if I was okay. “You need help?”
“No.” My brows draw together. I’ve never had that offer, either.